December 27, 1967

It was cold and gray in my Silver Spring, Maryland apartment the morning my Toledo, Ohio high school sweetheart and I planned to elope.
Karen's Dad Cliff forced us into action when he found letters I wrote her when she thought she might be pregnant and demanded that she no longer see me. I had graduated from high school in June and followed a job to D.C. while she was then a senior at Notre Dame girls academy. We met at a dance in the summer of 1966 and melded into one soul to the point where her fathers edict required us to act upon our solemn pledges of mutual love.
A Toledo cab ride to Toledo Express Airport instead of her previously planned downtown destination whisked her onto a flight to Washington National where I would pick her up at the gate (no security then) around noon.
It began raining. Hard. Then harder every hour the rest of that day.
Karen was one of the final people off the plane and my heart skipped a beat when I saw her. (Interestingly, many years later I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation!) The rain framed her long shapely legs as she strode down the stairway in a sexy black faux fur coat. Our eyes met and we shared the same air.
We drove to nearby downtown Alexandria, Virginia and got blood tests and filled out forms for the justice of the peace. His rich Irish name of Daniel Fairfax O'Flaherty made us trust him and he made our love official.
We were married. Now what? First, hide out from our parents until we settled somewhere.
My most recent sales gig was in Baltimore so we drove north.
As we moved slowly but steadily up the Baltimore Washington Parkway, the rain was intense. And then I ran out of gas. I had failed as a new husband within the first hour of our marriage.
Leaving my bride to wait alone in our useless car, I got out and connected with my Boy Scout roots by walking almost two miles back to a Shell service station. I bought a can of gas and he gave me a ride back to my Malibu.

 Karen did not laugh then, but later we both laughed a lot at this memory.